Sporks and Fries
by Kira
Summary: Complete nonsense - everybody loves Vaughn....*everbody*
1. Sporks and Fries

Sporks and Fries  
Story I  
  
By: Kira  
[kira @foreverbright.net]  


This is just a little piece of insanity I wrote for some friends of mine who said my serious fic was slashy. I had to show them what my slashy writing really looked like. There are some undertones, but the entire fic is G, PG at the most. Just drool over the boys, mmk? 

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Really. I might dream that I do sometimes, but I don't.  


There are some things you never imagine would happen. This was one of them. 

Listen, I'm really sorry about all those times I tried to kill you. It was unmistakable, that voice. Who else spoke with a crisp English accent like he was an American? That's right, Sark did, and he stood willingly in front of his arch-nemesis's boyfriend as if they had always been old friends. There was defiantly something wrong with this situation, Michael Vaughn observed, because he could swear that Eric Weiss was shooting a jealous glare at the Brit that scared even Vaughn.

Yeah, thanks, Vaughn replied, putting his awesome verbal skills to use. Sark smiled a bit at the response, thankful it was something other than a threat. He had been told he had a smile that could melt a woman's heart, and upped the wattage just a tad. Vaughn gave him a curious look. Weiss growled and stepped to Vaughn's side protectively. While normal people would take this as a sign to back off, Sark was a hired assassin, and the CIA desk agent didn't scare him. Well, maybe just a bit with that glare. Yep. Just a bit.

I hope you realize it was nothing personal, he continued despite the  
Glare of Death from Weiss. He looked down to the floor shyly, his hands  
shoved into his pockets.

Nothing personal? Vaughn laughed. I think it was a little personal.  
Sark's head snapped up at that, apprehension spreading through a normally stoic heart. It wasn't his fault that all during childhood, he had picked on those he liked to the point of them hating him. Then again, he never had any successful relationships. Why couldn't this dream of a man in front of him realize that the threats on his life were merely the assassin's way of flirting?

Weiss appeared as if he'd won a small war. 

You gonna order? the man behind the counter in the small, neighborhood grill rolled his eyes at the group of customers standing in front of him. One of them he knew, for he was a regular who ordered more than one man should humanly eat. Yet lately, he'd been ordering a small fry and salads, mumbling something about needing to trim down his figure. He was slowly getting an idea of who he was sacrificing his favorite double cheeseburger for.

I'll just have a burger and some fries, Vaughn yawned, scratching the back of his head. Sark came up to stand next to him. 

A little, Vaughn admitted, was a late night last night.

I'm sorry, he replied. Were his exploits around the world keeping his man awake? As long as they were keeping him away from Sydney. He frowned at the thought of that woman, making the moves on Vaughn. She was so wrong for a tall, strong man like him. He needed someone strong who could support him when he needed it. 

I'll just have a salad with French and a small fry, Weiss ordered over the counter. Vaughn looked over at him, surprised. 

Are you okay, Eric?

Fine, fine. Just trying new things, ya know?

I'll have a hot dog and a chocolate shake, Sark asked properly of the man behind the counter. Vaughn snapped his fingers and smiled. 

Perfect idea! I'll have a chocolate shake too! Eric?

I'm fine with diet coke, Weiss pouted. Why couldn't he see the sacrifices he was making for him? At least Sark was paying for their meals, Weiss reflected, as the Brit pulled out some money and paid the man. A smirk on his face caused by the shake, Vaughn lead his friends to a table off in the corner while their food was being prepared. He loved this restaurant, he really did. Weiss had showed the place to him a few weeks after they had met, pulling him into the back booth and staring at him. He thought it was weird. Weiss said he was trying to figure out what color eyes Vaughn had. 

Vaughn slid in to one side of the booth. Weiss and Sark stood at the end, glaring at each other, blocking each other from entering next to the object of their affections. This was an almost impossible situation. Fortunately for the poor janitor who would have to clean the place after their bloodbath, the food was up. Both were more than happy to run and retrieve it. 

Vaughn retrieved his voice mails while they were gone, oblivious to the obvious tension between Sark and Weiss. And speaking of that –

Why are you even here? Vaughn asked Sark as he returned and slid into the booth next to him. Weiss growled audibly, cursing Sark's training in the acts of espionage and such. He had slid in there so gracefully, leaving Weiss to sit across from his friend. Sark divvied out Vaughn's food and his own, then shoved the tray to the end of the table. Weiss reached to get his own food. 

I just wanted to spend some time with my favorite CIA agent, he grinned. Vaughn salted his ketchup and took a bite out of a fry. 

Wouldn't that be Sydney? he asked. Both Weiss and Sark's expressions darkened at the mention of that woman's name, pausing in the middle of eating their food. Vaughn noticed the pause and looked at the both of them. What? What did I say?

Weiss smiled. Vaughn never said anything wrong, at least not in Weiss' mind. He munched on some of his salad as his gaze rose to meet Vaughn's eyes. God, those eyes! Every time he felt angry at Vaughn, he would just have to give them one look and he was cured. 

Agent Vaughn, I would have thought you would have known it is you, Sark replied sweetly. Vaughn returned the smile, the two broken up by Weiss slamming his fist on the table. 

That's enough! he cried. Sark was coming in here and messing up the relationship he'd worked on for years! He was so close, so close to getting, ahem, closer to his best friend. He'd already planted the doubt in Sydney's mind, but Sark would be much harder. He had to end this now. 

Eric, are you okay? First a salad, and then this, Vaughn observed. All he wanted to do was eat his burger, was that too much to ask for?

Sark, you have to leave! Weiss exclaimed, pointing to the door. Sark grinned. 

Or what, Agent Weiss? You'll try to hurt me? Sark responded. 

That's right, I challenge you to a duel!

A duel?

A duel for what? Vaughn asked, eating another fry. Sark was mesmerized. How could one man make something so simple as eating a fry look so sexy? And the way his jaw moved as he chewed, it was – wonderful. He was surprised no one had caught on to the fact that his threats on Sydney's life were to get her out of the way. 

For your honor, Mike, Weiss said to him softly. 

My honor? 

I accept, Sark laughed. This desk CIA agent was going down.

I'm gonna take you down, take you down to Chinatown, Weiss grinned. Vaughn laughed. 

I love that line! he smiled. Weiss grabbed a box of straws from a nearby supply counter. Sark chose a box of sporks. The other patrons had gathered around the pair, intrigued by the odd fight going on and the gorgeous man sitting in the booth next to them. His sparkling green eyes moved from one man to the other, confused, curious. 

Weiss struck first. Grabbing a handful of straws, he tossed them at Sark. One struck him in the face, causing the international hitman to rub his face where it struck and look in the metal of a napkin holder. Ok, he was fine. He ran at Weiss, sporks in his hand. Weiss waited – he had been in a fight with spork before, he knew what to do. Just as Sark was about to spork him, Weiss moved out of the way and kicked him into the back of the restaurant. 

With Sark cornered, Weiss was ready to move in to make his, well move. His hand was raised above his head, ready to pummel the blond man with the remaining straws, but was stopped as someone griped his wrist. He turned his head to see Vaughn standing there, a soft smile on his lips. They were so close now, Weiss could see his dreams come true. 

He's not worth it, he breathed. His breath was warm, sweet. Weiss smiled, letting the straws fall to the floor. But Sark wasn't finished with him yet. With one last spork, he jumped up and launched himself at Weiss. Vaughn pulled him out of the way at the last moment, taking the spork in the side. He cried out and fell to the floor. 

Look what you did! Weiss screamed, rushing to Vaughn's side. Sark took up space on the other, concern and remorse in his light blue eyes. 

I'm so sorry, so sorry! he said. Vaughn sighed. 

I know, it's ok, Sark.

You okay, buddy? Weiss asked. Vaughn turned to him. 

Of course. But my cheeseburger's getting cold. Sark and Weiss helped him up and deposited him in the booth, making him the center of a Sark-Vaughn-Weiss sandwich. 

They finished their lunch in peace. 

As Sark departed to go off and do more evil things, he slipped Vaughn his phone number, giving him a wink. Weiss pulled a left-over spork from his pocket. Vaughn laughed, put his arm around Weiss, and moved over to -- 

In her dark apartment, Sydney Bristow woke up, her face covered in sweat. She took a deep breath, regaining herself before glancing over at the clock. 3 am. She turned to where Vaughn should have been lying, asleep. 

What an odd dream to be having! 

But still, she couldn't help but feel it wasn't just coming from nowhere. Slipping out of bed, she made her way over to the door connecting to the living room with padded feet. The TV was on. That was odd, she thought. Opening the door, she looked out into the living room, then promptly screamed and fainted. 

On the couch, the boy-wich woke up, looked over at her, then fell back asleep. Vaughn sighed. Why did he always have to be in the middle?  



	2. Muffins and Coffee

Sporks and Fries  
Story II : Muffins and Coffee  
  
By: Kira  
[kira @foreverbright.net]  


Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Really. I might dream that I do sometimes, but I don't.

Because of feedback recieved for the first part on SD-1.com, I decided to keep going. Here's the next part of this "saga".   


Jack wasn't very happy. 

Well, he usually wasn't very happy, so this wasn't anything different than usual. But he was particularly unhappy at the moment because there was a phone ringing somewhere in his house and he didn't know where the phone was. He'd turned over the cushions to his still brand-new smelling couch, searched several neat and organized drawers, and looked in the bottom of his closet. Still no luck. 

What was worse was the fact that the person *kept on calling*. He growled and rubbed his forehead. Was there a phone in his home he'd forgotten about? 

He snapped his fingers and ran to the closet in the laundry room, where his suits deemed past the point of repair were sitting (along side the worn too many times to wear again suits) and searched the pockets, coming up with a small, blue Nokia 3100 series phone. The memory came back to him – this was Vaughn's cell phone, never reclaimed after the whole Security Section situation was cleared up. He must have gotten a new phone after that split-second switch, and someone hadn't gotten the new number. 

Curiosity grabbed hold of the secret agent, and while he *knew* he should simply turn the phone off and return it to its rightful owner (there had to be some numbers in the phone book on this thing the younger agent needed), he quickly decided against it. That man was with his little girl, and he wasn't about to do anything nice for him. 

He answered it, but said nothing. 

Jack knew that voice! It was that annoying dipshit who got to be around Irina when she wasn't locked up in a cell under surveillance! Why was Sark calling Vaughn? Listen, I know you can hear me, and I just wanted to say before you hang up on me that I enjoyed lunch last week even though there were a few, and here he paused, problems. I hope to see you again soon. Alone. He hung up. Jack stood there, open mouthed, the phone still held up to his ear. Was there something going on? And what the hell did that man think he was doing, still going out with his daughter! He had to go take care of this – now. 

So Jack made his way to the one place he knew his baby's workaholic of a boyfriend would be at six o'clock in the morning. 

The Starbucks across from the freeway. 

Two miles down the road was the non-descript building that housed the Joint Task Force. The Starbucks down the way had been adopted by the newly transplanted CIA agents as someplace to get their coffee ever since the Great Coffeemaker Incident of March. Two were sent to the hospital and Weiss had been on trial for a few days. He was later exonerated as the new intern confessed. But Jack wasn't completely convinced. Weiss *had* leaped in front of the coffee pot when Vaughn approached for his morning cup, knocking both of them to the floor. 

Jack slapped his forehead. Of course! He should have seen it then. And when Sydney came into work a week ago distraught

He swerved haphazardly into a parking lot and slammed the door, huffing as he stormed into the coffee place. 

So then, I was like, dude, sporks, totally; and he was – Eric Weiss stopped laughing as Jack suddenly appeared standing above the pair sitting at the table, a glare that had killed people before focused at him. Why did that man have to come now, of all times? He was so in the middle of a moment with Vaughn, which he had been working hard at for the last week. Ever since that British pretty boy showed up, he'd beenoff. 

It was at that moment that Weiss realized this death glare was not focused on him, as it normally was, but on Vaughn. Handsome, perfect, boy scout Vaughn. It was like trying to kill a harmless puppy. Weiss wasn't going to have anyone look at his boy like that. 

he said tersely, his gaze just as cold. Jack shifted to look at him, and took a slight step back upon seeing his face. Can we help you?

Michael Vaughn, who had been enjoying his English muffin and cherry jam, finally looked up at Jack, as he appeared Less Harmless than when he walked in (a time when he was Very Harmful).

I would like to speak to Mr. Vaughn, he said. 

Was it possible that Jack wanted to move in on his territory as well? First Sark, then Jack. Who was next? That reporter friend of Sydney's – whatshisname? Will? Why couldn't he just be left alone? Weiss longed for the old days, when he didn't know any of these new people and his only competition was Alice. And Maureen. And there was that crazy girl – Fiona. He shuttered. Now *there* was a psycho. If he could take Fiona, he could certainly take Jack Bristow. 

Bring it on. 

We're eating our breakfast here, Jack, Vaughn finally built up the courage to say. Jack was about to re-focus his gaze, but Weiss chose this moment to get out of the booth, brushing past Jack and almost knocking him off his balance. He was off to get a weapon. 

Jack took this opportunity to slip into Weiss' vacated seat. Vaughn took another bite of his English Muffin. 

Mr. Vaughn, I have something to return to you, he commented, pulling the cell phone from his pocket and sliding it across the table to Vaughn. He took it, wondering for a second why it looked as if it had been thrown at a wall. He shrugged and ate with one hand as he looked through the phone book. Ugghe now remembered why he didn't miss this phone all that much. 

Thanks, but you didn't have to, he smiled. Jack rolled his eyes. 

I received a very disturbing phone call earlier on it, he continued. Vaughn finished up his breakfast and took a sip of the coffee Weiss had gotten for him. He'd given up on getting his own coffee because Weiss made it *perfectly* for him. Like he put love into it or something. Vaughn laughed in his head. Right. Weiss in love with him? Totally not possible.

Vaughn asked. Could it be that one of his ex-girlfriends had decided to call him and accost him once again? He shuttered. Damn that Fiona, she was worse that Alice. Only someone that insane would think to kidnap his dog but not think it through enough and end up walking it outside his best friend's apartment. 

Yes, it was - but he was cut off as Weiss returned, breakfast sweets in tow, and slid into the booth next to Vaughn. Jack narrowed his eyes, examining how close Weiss was, and the lack of discomfort on Vaughn's part. He cleared his throat and continued. Mr. Sark, commenting on a lunch last week?

That damned Brit, Weiss muttered under his breath, stabbing his muffin with his finger rather violently. Vaughn swiped a large chunk that had fallen off and popped it in his mouth, checking the clock over Jack's shoulder. Ugg. He had to get into work soon if he was going to get off early enough to go out to dinner with Sydney. He couldn't break that date – he'd missed a few already. 

Yeah? What did he want?

To see you again, alone, Jack revealed. Mr. Vaughn, I know my daughter is a grown woman, but I have started to worry about you.

Vaughn said. He moved to take another piece of the muffin but Weiss slapped his hand away, overly protective of his muffin. Vaughn quickly retracted his hand and pouted with that puppy-dog face. This caused Weiss to melt and turn to his friend. 

he smiled. 

Vaughn smiled back. Weiss' grin grew unconsciously. They were close in the booth, so close. Their shoulders were only inches apart, and for a second, Weiss was once again in seventh heaven. They sat that way for a moment until – 

Jack roared, causing the entire Starbucks to look at them. Weiss couldn't take it anymore. Sark was calling his man to make dates, he was sitting here earlier than human's should awaken because his man was going out with that, that *woman*, and now Jack had interrupted a moment. A moment! This he could not take. So he did the only thing he could think worth of this situation. 

He chucked the three day old rock hard muffin square at Jack's head. 

Both Vaughn and Jack's eyes were open wide in shock as Weiss simply brushed his hands together, letting the crumbs on them fall to the plate on the table. The muffin, a chocolate chip one, sat in Jack's lap as the older agent rubbed the large red spot on his forehead. It took a moment, but Weiss finally realized what he did and re-ran when Jack had entered to see if he had a gun on him. 

But instead of taking out his gun and shooting Weiss on the spot (he had learned long ago that places didn't like having to clean blood off the floor), he picked up the muffin, examined it, and promptly threw it back at its owner. 

It missed, and hit Vaughn's coffee. The coffee cup slammed into him, and he was thankful it wasn't piping hot, but it was hot. And he wasn't wearing one of those stain defender shirts. 

Damn it. He knew he should have shelled out those $10 extra dollars for one!

And his shirt was white. 

While Jack was calmly standing to leave before there was a confrontation, Weiss' mind was on the fact that his man was wearing a white shirt and it wasn't dry anymore. 

I'll, umm, talk to you – 

There you are! Sydney exclaimed, walking into the Starbucks. She stopped short, though, as she saw her boyfriend stand and try to brush the coffee off his shirt. She then saw Weiss sitting on the edge of the booth. And her father – what the? What the hell happened to your head? 

What happened to you shirt? she asked of Vaughn, but before he could answer, she continued. And what are you doing with *him*?! I told you that you can't hang out with him when I'm not around! She was shrieking now, pointing an accusing finger at Weiss. He stood, hands on his hips. 

He can't hang out with me?

she cried. 

I'm his best friend! 

Oh, you want to be more than that!

What are you talking about? Vaughn asked, clueless as always. Sydney humphed and stood strong. 

What am I talking about? What am I talking about!

Ma'am? You're – The clerk stopped as the four of them glared at him. 

Listen, Sydney, I don't know what you're talking about! Vaughn responded. 

You swear you're with me only? No calls, no lunches? she asked. Vaughn nodded. She smiled and wrapped her arms around him. 

Of course, that was when the cell phone Jack just returned rang. And rang. Sydney took the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID, then stormed out. 

Damn that Sark, Weiss thought. Or wait. Was this the one time he was happen the little Brit had intervened?  



	3. Alcohol and Magazines

Sporks and Fries:

Alcohol and Magazines

By Kira

kira@sd-1.com | 

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Really. Seriously!

It was actually Will Tippin's idea. 

It was two days after Jack Bristow came into the JTF with a large bruise on his forehead. The older agent had been increasingly distant that day and continued to shoot glares at Weiss that only Sydney could rival in her most angry of moments. Will had become increasingly curious as the day wore on, wishing he could be in the "know". Sydney was in the "know," Jack was in the "know," Weiss was in the "know," and even that Vaughn guy was in the "know." Hell, everyone in the cast was in the "know" except for him, and he saw only one way to fix that. 

"Guys' night," he said casually, leaning against the desk next to Weiss, eating some strawberry yogurt. Weiss paused from his work, then swiveled to look up at him. 

"Guys' night? What are we, in junior high?" Weiss asked, taking in the former-reporter decked out in semi-casual wear. Why couldn't he wear clothes like that to work? And while his mind was on the subject, why couldn't Vaughn? 

"No. I just think it would be nice," Will continued, shifting his weight as his eyes went back to the yogurt. "I mean, we've been working together for how long, 2, 3 months?"

"You're eating strawberry yogurt for lunch and you're proposing a guy's night?" Weiss inquired, gesturing to the food in question. Will shrugged and scooped his spoon around the outer edges to make sure he got all of it. As soon as he pulled the spoon from his mouth, he pointed it at Weiss. 

"Didn't I hear something about you being on a diet?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as the spoon wavered at the end of his hand. A fleck of strawberry landed on the desk, but Weiss didn't notice that. He was too busy being embarrassed and angered at the same time. 

"…yes," Weiss confessed. "But if you – wait, where did you hear it?" 

"Syd told me."

"And?"

"Vaughn told her," Will said, sticking the spoon back in the container. 

"Does he tell her everything?" Weiss growled, looking across the JTF for Vaughn. He didn't find him and frowned a bit. 

"I think so," Will added as an afterthought. "Anyway, what are you doing tonight?"

"Wha? Oh, nothing."

"Good," Will smiled. "I'll ask Syd to invite Vaughn." Weiss nodded, and almost returned to his work before remembering the state his apartment was in. He raised a hand and called out to Will. 

"Better ask to have it at his place."

. . 

Michael Vaughn loved parties. When he was small, his mother would throw one whenever his father came home, a large bash to celebrate him living to see another day. Of course, it always ended with her drunk in a corner, and his father having to carry her upstairs, but this simply taught the young boy how to be a proper host. However, this also taught him how to be a proper host when sending people away. 

Which was why he was sitting straight on his couch, nervous. A guys' night? Sure, he'd hung out – scratch that – gotten drunk with Weiss before and watched old movies, but never with more than just him. What was he supposed to do? 

He suddenly flashed back to college, but brushed that out of his mind as someone knocked at the door. As he walked to the door, Sydney's voice hollered in his ear. 

"Don't let Weiss get near you – I don't trust him alone with you."

"But Syd," he whined, "he's been my best friend for years. We've been alone plenty of times."

"Don't wanna hear it! Just…"

"Hey!" Weiss said, breaking his thoughts again. He grinned as Weiss enveloped him in a large bear hug. Will stood awkwardly behind him as Weiss rested his head on Vaughn's shoulder. Ahh…he had taken his advice about the aftershave and worn less. He sighed, inhaling his scent. How perfect was this man? He smelled wonderful, no matter where he was, including his apartment after a day of work. Will cleared his throat behind them. Weiss growled and pulled back. 

"What is it now…." His voice trailed off as he saw who was standing behind Will. 

Sark. 

That bloody Brit! What the hell was he doing there!?

Sark smiled, feeling a happiness he hadn't felt in long time. There he was – and even though it had only been a week and a half, he still had felt this emptiness inside him. 

It had been a month ago that he realized it. Sark was on yet another boring menial mission in which he had to go find some thing blah, blah, blah. And then there was this beautiful man – if there ever was one to turn him, this was the one – who ran after him and chained him to a gate. As this memory had run through his mind a month ago, he realized it – and promptly flew to LA.

"Good evening, Mr. Vaughn," he smiled, speaking with his crisp quasi-accent. "Mr. Tippin, it's nice to see you looking so well." Will appeared a bit uncomfortable and backed up until he backed into the doorframe. "Shall we take this party inside?"

When he spoke, they moved. 

"Wow, Vaughn, this is a nice place," Will observed. It really was. All clean and color coordinated like he'd been shopping the Martha Stewart section of the local K-Mart. Yeah, so it was cheep coordinated. He was a government employee. 

"Thanks," Vaughn responded. 

"Very clean as well," Sark said. He was standing in Michael Vaughn's apartment. And he didn't have to kill anyone or break down any doors with bullets to get in. It just added to the experience. Of course, they always said that violence always heightened…things…so maybe – 

Oh dear, there was that glare from Weiss again. 

"What are you doing here?" he growled protectively, his voice low enough so only Sark could hear. 

"Why, Mr. Weiss, we meet again," he smirked. "But this time, I don't think a box of straws is going to save you."

"Oh yeah? Wait until I get into the kitchen."

"Really, Mr. Weiss, I don't see Mr. Vaughn as the straw type."

"I have two words for you, Sark: Bendy-Straws."

"Be-"

"Wow, Vaughn, you have a great movie collection!" Will's exclamation carried over their argument, and both men turned to see Will crouched down next to Vaughn in front of the apartment's DVD collection. "What's your favorite movie of all time?"

"Of all time?" Vaughn smiled back. "Hrmmm…I don't know if I could pick just one. I mean, that includes every movie ever made." Will's beautiful blue eyes opened wide, a look both Sark and Weiss knew well - it was The Look. They had to stop him before he completed the thought, before anything else happened. Weiss, having lost weight in the last two weeks because of his successful diet, leapt over the couch only to fall over onto the coffee table. As he lie there flat on his back, Sark rounded the couch swiftly yet safely, putting a hand on both Will and Vaughn's shoulders. 

"Why don't we get something to drink?" he tried. Vaughn nodded and stood, Will following suit. He said the right answer to the question! He was – he could see why Weiss and Sydney were always talking about him. Vaughn moved over to help Weiss from the table, who held onto his hand for just a tad too long, before Sark's movement under his coat for his gun caused him to let go. 

"We need something to drink," Weiss sighed. "And we need it badly."

The others nodded and headed for the hopefully well stocked frig. The only way Vaughn could redeem himself for the Martha Stewart decorating would be a good bachelor stock of beer and old food. Plus, he was always at Sydney's, so why would he have anything here?

Three Hours Later…

"You know what?" Weiss posed, half-hanging over the back of the couch. 

"What?" Will asked, sitting in the nearby armchair, examining one of the magazines he'd found on the coffee table. 

"I'm booooored," he moaned, the word elongated as Vaughn's feet came to rest on his legs with a thud. Vaughn's head hung over the end of the couch, the world odd as he looked at it upside down. 

"There is a pack of cards," Sark tired, still completely in control. He could hold his alcohol better than anyone else here, something he hoped to use to his advantage. "We could play poker." His accent slipped, causing him to look around the room with shifty eyes. 

"I don't have any money," Will said. Weiss was suddenly alert. This was perfect. He smiled, poking at Vaughn's foot. Of course, Vaughn had good reflexes, and promptly kicked him in the face. 

"Ow!" he cried, holding his eye. No, this was not going to stop him. 

"You ok?" someone asked. He wasn't sure, because he was sure Sark no longer had an accent. That faker. 

"Yeah."

"We can't play, I have no money," Will continued on, throwing the magazine across the room. Sark caught it perfectly and started to read it. 

"But you have clothes," Weiss grinned like a chestire cat. Vaughn laughed from the end of the couch, that deep, wonderful laugh. 

Will made for the cards. 

. . 

"You must have been a serious gambler in your past, Mr. Vaughn." 

Sark smirked and brushed back some of his gorgeous blond hair, noticing how envious of his golden locks Weiss and Will were. He shrugged. Not everyone could be blessed with perfect hair – but he was still trying to figure out how Vaughn was able to pull off the bed head look at all hours of the day and night without looking sloppy or ill-groomed. It always took Sark himself at least an hour to get his hair to appear perfect, an hour of torture if he were still sharing the only bathroom in a cold European warehouse with psycho Sloane and Irina. He shuttered involuntarily. Now *she* took a long time to get her hair just right – and how many times had she chastised him for using the last of her hair products? 

"Not really. Alice was the gambler," he explained, struggling with his task of shuffling the deck. "She was always pulling me off to Las Vegas whenever I had a free moment." Will shook his head at Vaughn's apparent ineptness when it came to something as simple as shuffling some cards, and reached forward to take them from him. His hand touched Vaughn's cold one, and he paused in movement. Weiss cleared his throat. Nothing. Weiss reached in his pocket and extracted his yellow yo-yo, an evil grin on his face. He could handle competing with the Brit, but Will as well? No, no he couldn't. So, in the usual Weiss tradition, he threw it at Will's head. 

"Ow!" Will yelled, quickly pulling back his hand so to rub the side of his head. "What is with you and throwing things at people!?"

"Yes, Mr. Weiss. Straws, yo-yos, and what's this I hear about you throwing a muffin at Jack Bristow?" Sark piped up, dusting an imaginary spider from his forearm. 

"Did you just send a fleck of evil my way? Because I swear I saw a fleck of evil come my way," Will started, still rubbing his head. The cards were now in a large pile on the table, Vaughn running his hands through them as if he were a 5-year old. The boys were transfixed by this simple action, except Sark, who felt the need to snark Will in an effort to eliminate him as a contender. 

"What, am I Lurky now?"

"Lu-who?" Weiss inquired. Vaughn almost giggled as he started stacking the cards back into some kind of deck. 

"From Rainbow Bright!" he exclaimed, clapping. Will groaned – this man was a giggly-drunk. Who would have thought this stoic man could *giggle* like a school girl? "He was the big guy and Murky was his partner, and they went around spreading those, those, things!" He punctuated the word thing as if it were a breakthrough term of utmost importance. His arms went above his head, fingers spread wide. 

"Aren't you a little – old to be liking Rainbow Bright?" Will inquired. Weiss growled. Did he just call Vaughn old?! Did he just dare to call him – oh, this was not going to fly. Not going to fly at all. 

"Will, watch your tongue," he hissed across the table. Sark laughed. 

"At least Rainbow Bright was in my generation," he deadpanned. The group stopped, silent. 

Then: "We need more beer. I'll get it." 

Ahh, Weiss, the voice of reason. He shoved back his chair and stood…only to trip over one of the legs. He caught himself without thinking on the first thing he came in contact with, which happened to be – 

"Get your hands off my boy!" Sark exclaimed, completely out of character. And that was when they realized Sark was a loud drunk. With Weiss' tumble and landing on Vaughn, he was the clumsy one. 

"So what's this about Alice?" Will asked, always the reporter. Vaughn started playing with the cards one-handed as Weiss leaned closer into his side. 

"Off. My. Boy."

"Oh, she had a gambling problem. When I broke up with her, she went to Las Vegas with one of my credit cards. You should see that bill," Vaughn continued to explain. 

"Off. Now."

"Really? And you haven't called anyone?" Will raised his eyebrows, surprised. 

"Mr. Weiss."

"Naw. She's mostly harmless," Vaughn sighed. Will nodded in understanding as he examined his fingers on the table. There *was* a fleck of evil there! Sark, that mean sadistic bastard, spreading his influence like that! He wasn't going to convert him that easily – he was a – 

Weiss screamed a girly scream that rivaled Will's. 

Sark was standing at the other end of the table, his gun drawn and pointed at Weiss, who was now clutching Vaughn's right leg as if he were a 2 year old child scared of getting lost in the large K-Mart. Sark was slightly frightening with that gun pointed at him, but all Vaughn cared about was his leg. An old hockey injury had popped his knee out, and Weiss' constantly tightening grip wasn't helping that one bit. 

"Whoa," Will breathed. He decided this would be a good time to get that beer Weiss was supposed to be retrieving at the moment. He wasn't cut out for having guns pointed at people, especially when alcohol was involved. 

"Sark, why don't you put the…the….what's that? The gun!" he shouted, grinning. The grin had lasting effects, and even Weiss stood to observe its wonder. And Will almost dropped the beer he was carrying as he re-entered the room. Sark was also effected, and let the gun drop to the floor with little mind to the fact that it might accidentally go off. 

"Why…" Weiss cleared his throat and let his voice return to a normal pitch. "Why don't we just start the game."

So they started. 

Vaughn, being the ex-boyfriend of Alice, the gambling addict, was pretty good at poker. 

Will, being nothing more than a journalism major, wasn't that good a poker. 

Weiss, being the "ladies man" he claimed to be, was very bad.

And Sark was enjoying watching his companions screw up because they were too damn drunk to realize that the side with the red and black dot-like thingies were supposed to be secrets and thus not shown to everyone at the entire table (and at one point, the neighbors across the alley from the apartment). 

However, the pile in the center of the table was getting large enough that it didn't matter if they were holding the cards backwards – no one could see anyone else. This disappointed Sark the most, as Will and Weiss were able to look around the sides and see the man of wonder and he couldn't. So, he pouted. 

"Are you pouting? I can *hearere* you pouting over there," Vaughn's throaty, alcohol-effected voice floated over the pile like a beacon of hope and joy sent to him and him alone. It was deep and smooth, wonderful in every way. Oh, at this point he was considering giving up the life of the assassin for this man. If he were put in CIA custody, would he come and visit every day? Speak to him through the glass that clearly separated them even in this clear, twisted life. 

Oh, to be a fly on a wall in that apartment that night. 

"Let's see, you lose!" Weiss cried in delight. "Lose the undershirt."

Vaughn paused, then complied. Sark actually leaned over and *pushed* the clothes off the table to watch this event take place. 

It was worth every glare from Weiss. And Will. 

Of course, since they were glaring at him, they were missing the view. 

"Dudes, who idea was this anyway?" Vaughn inquired, scratching his chest. There was a delayed reaction before:

"Mine."

"Mine."

"Totally mine, guys," Will said, pouting. "No question."

"At least you're still wearing something resembling a shirt," Vaughn observed with a child's voice. It was getting kinda cold in the room. Maybe that was because he'd left the window open when showing his neighbors his awesome hand (which wasn't all that awesome, since it was only a pair of 2's and the cause for him loosing his blue oxford). 

"That's no mistake," Sark grinned. He looked down into his lap and the extra deck he'd swiped from a box in the closet labeled "Alice's Leftovers". Yes, there was no mistake on why he, Weiss and Will, who had temporarily banded together for a common cause, were still semi-clothed. 

But that was all about to change. 

. . 

"Uh, guys?" 

Vaughn sat with a bare foot propped up on the table, wiggling his toes every so often just so he'd know they were still there. Of course, he could have always just looked at the foot in front of him, but something in his mind told him that wiggling them and feeling the air around them change would be an easier way to calm his lost-toe fears. That, and he had found out as soon as he put his foot on the table that Sark had a fear of bare feet, and would cringe each time he moved. 

Which was probably the reason Weiss had insisted on him keeping it there. You see, Weiss liked feet. A lot. And having Vaughn's foot right there in front of him was nice. Very nice. So nice, in fact, that he had lost three hands in a row and was finding himself on the loosing end of the clothed-not clothed battle he had previously been winning.

And he was slowly realizing it was a little cold in the room. 

Sark shifted in his seat so that he could look at Vaughn and not at his foot, which had wiggling toes again. The leather jacked he normally wore was on the floor, along with his over shirt. But his shoes and socks were still on, and he would fight to the death before he looked at even his own feet. 

"Why do I have five of the same card?" Vaughn continued, turning them around so the room could see. Indeed, he did have five red 2's nestled between worn and tired fingers, spread out as only an anal and organized person would have them. Will started giggling, his hand coming up to rest in front of his mouth. 

Weiss broke the silence: "That's not right."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Will managed through his trip through elementary school behavior. 

"Does that mean I win?" Vaughn asked innocently. 

"I think the real question here is why you have five," Sark stated, as to take the blame away from himself. Of course, everyone else at the table, except for Vaughn, knew the cards were indeed his, and thus it was a pathetic attempt at keeping face. 

"Are you sure there are five? I mean, what if there are more?" Weiss said, his voice getting somewhat panicky. Oh, he was good. Let's pass it off as something none of them did. Sark smiled a bit, admiring Weiss' acting talents. "What if someone came in here and messed with our cards!" 

After that exclamation, and Weiss' bold move that sent Vaughn's foot crashing to the ground with a painful thud, Sark wasn't so sure he was acting anymore. Vaughn, however, howled and doubled over, examining his foot. The rest of the players leaned over as well, not wanting anything to happen to Vaughn at all. Unless it was less clothing. 

But with Weiss' boneheaded move, it seemed the undressing was coming to an end. Sark was slightly thankful since in a few rounds he would have had to start revealing his feet. Will, who happened to be perfectly all right with all parts of himself (including his feet), shrugged and crossed the room to close the window. It was chilly, and cold was not good when your clothes were scattered about the table, knocked off after he'd tried to diagram….something – what was it again? Oh yeah, his escape. But the salt shaker was rejected as an appropriate form for Sydney, who he'd put off on the edge of the table, and the argument that had erupted was loud. Annoying. And the only good that came out of it was "Sydney" falling off the table. They cheered. 

"Are you ok?" Weiss demanded, eyes wide. Sark stood and rushed over, leaning over Weiss' shoulder to look at Vaughn's foot without getting too close. 

"Look what you did, Mr. Weiss. That's the second time you've injured him!" Sark exclaimed, whacking him on the back of the head. 

"Me? It's always your fault! You were attacking me with straws! You were cheating with the extra cards to get him naked! Not me!" Weiss defended himself, standing. Sark, being the super secret assassin he was, *almost* lost his balance, but quickly regained it. The chair tumbled to the floor. 

Will didn't know if he should get out a referee's whistle or get involved in the fight. He was truly torn. So, he decided to get the best of them, and ran to the kitchen in search of some kind of bandage. He would be the hero in this story! The knight in shining armor. The victor! 

Wait, since when did his think like this? 

"Will! Bendy straws! I *need* them!" Weiss screamed at the top of his lungs, no doubt waking everyone else in the building up from their slumber. Will, who was easily sidetracked despite the outward appearance that he was sober, rummaged quickly through the drawers letting perfectly placed utensils clamber to the tile below. 

Outside, it was getting ugly. 

While Vaughn had a high threshold for pain while perfectly sober, and would thus be thought to have the same threshold while intoxicated, didn't. Instead, tears were welding up in his glazed green eyes, and he looked like a lost puppy dog. But Sark nor Weiss noticed. 

Weiss was still behind the couch, hands on his hips, face red. 

Sark was on the other side, grabbing magazines from the table and chucking them at the yelling Weiss. 

"Will! Where are the bendy straws?" Weiss cried, looking over his shoulder. That was the mistake of the night, and Sark hit him square in the head with a thick IKEA catalogue. Now, the fact that Weiss was still standing surprised Sark, who thought furniture catalogues were supposed to double as deadly weapons. He had clearly never been introduced to the IKEA methodology, and after the lightweight and fully functional book hit Weiss, it folded into a nice small and easily storable shape that was aesthetically pleasing while remaining practical. All for the low price of $5.95. Incredible. 

As most people seem to lose most of their attention spans and intelligence while intoxicated, even when it is cheap beer that had been sitting in various refrigerators for the last week or so, Sark succumbed to the wonder that is IKEA and suddenly decided he was needing a new black leather couch for his Den of Evil (the chicks dug the name). 

And at that exact moment, the clattering and clambering of Will in the kitchen ceased and he jumped out in true secret agent style, chucking the unopened box of bendy straws in Sark's direction. 

He missed. 

Weiss turned to him, his hands dropping down to his sides, a look of confusion drawn across his face. 

"Great one, Will. Really," he deadpanned. "Throwing a box at him really hurt. The bendy straws are still inside!"

"And now I have them!" Sark yelled, holding the box victoriously above his head with one hand, the IKEA magazine in the other. Why couldn't he find nice furniture like this over where he lived. And why the hell did Vaughn have items from the Martha Stewart collection when he had an IKEA magazine and the means to purchase from it?

Of course, then again, he was a government employee. And that meant he didn't get paid as much as, say, a freelance assassin. Sark pondered this. Maybe some kind of donation was in order. Didn't he say something about a lost credit card and a compulsive gambler ex? That could be why, he surmised. And why the hell was his arm hurting, his mind asked him as he looked over the specs for a nice bookcase on page 78. It was a nice tall bookcase that came in black – what the hell! – the mind said. Look at your damned arm, then look over some new purchases. 

"What the hell are you doing?!" he shrieked, ice blue eyes wide. Will, attempting to atone for his mistake with the closed box of bendy straws, was pulling down on Sark's arm, almost hanging mid-air as he attempted to retrieve them. Weiss was trying to take advantage of his close proximity to Sark, and stood, trying to get the box of bendy straws open. 

Buffoons, both of them. 

The straw box suddenly opened, sending a shower of multi-colored bendy straws down on Sark, followed with the box, as Will gave up and fell to the ground. 

Sark just glared at Weiss with the Most Annoyed Look Ever plastered all over his face. 

Now, imagine for a moment that you yourself are stuck in this exact same situation. Just sit back and think about it. A man who is known to kill people with no reason at all just had a box of bendy straws of a variety of colors (the 100 multi-color pack) fall all over him, a man (who was not at the time fully dressed) attack his arm, and another – oh, who had fought against him ever since he walked into that sandwich shop and ordered a chocolate shake. He's more than a little pissed at the moment, and has given a very threatening look. 

So, based on previous behavior, you'd expect Weiss to glare back and shout about defending Vaughn's honor. And you're sitting there, waiting for the reaction. 

He screamed. 

Will was surprised – for he thought he had the girlest scream ever. But Weiss' loud, shriek had him beat, and he returned to bandaging Vaughn's apparently injured ankle. Because of this, he missed Weiss high-tailing it out of there with interjections from Vaughn the entire way, knocking over a lamp – 

"Hey! That's my $30 lamp!"

- a stack of books – 

"I was pretending to read those!"

- a bag from the mall – 

"I'm hoping you didn't break that. It was a present for Sydney!"

- and stopped dead in his tracks. The only sound heard in the apartment was the shifting of straws under Sark's feet, crunching as he turned his attention to the bag lying near the door. 

It was a non-descript bag, a brown one – wait!

"Norstrom! You went and got her something from – " Will exclaimed, letting the bandage hang off Vaughn's ankle as he stood. 

"You were able to get her something from there, yet you shop at K-Mart for your home?" Sark interrupted the reporter turned analyst, picking a bright pink bendy straw from his golden locks. He bent it out of annoyance, the straw making that crinkly sound as he did so. Then, it broke, because he was too mean to it. 

"There is a reason I shoppeded at K-Mart," Vaughn defended himself after stumbling over one of the more simpler of words in the English language. He pointed a finger skyward, as if his explanation was to be a grand and awesome proclamation of some kind. They all awaited his answer, Weiss inching ever so sneakily towards the bag as if it were second base and he were about to steal it. 

"Alice," was all he said, and let his hand fall limply to his lap. Sark let out a little laugh, just a small one, then flicked the broken pieces of the straw to the ground.

"Alice what?" 

"What?" Vaughn asked, picking at the end of the bandage around his ankle. 

"What does Alice have to do with your poor sense of consumerism?" Will shouted, pulling himself from the ground, chewing on a purple straw. It bounced up and down in his mouth as he spoke at an odd angle, having already been "bendied". By now, Weiss had a bare toe around the top handle of the bag and was struggling to lift it quietly to get a look inside. As soon as he did, his face went white and he pulled his foot away as fast as he could, as if there were some viral disease inside the simple looking bag. Sark sent him a question through a somewhat less threatening look than before, but Weiss just shook his head. 

Could you really get things like that at Nordstrom?

He didn't think it possible, and looked over at Vaughn. Drastic measures had to be taken in order to save him before all this "Sydney" love got to his head. She was already telling him who his friends could be as if he were still in kindergarten. 

Ironic that he thought that, because at that very moment, Vaughn was pulling at the bandage and flinching at the same time, his mind unable to connect that the pulling was causing the pain. 

"Consumerism?" Sark asked. "That man," he continued, pointing at Vaughn, "is so drunk that he probably doesn't remember his own name, let alone what the hell the word consumerism means."

"I do," Will said simply. 

"You, Mr. Tippin, obviously hold your liquor better than him."

"Hell, anyone does," Weiss commented, walking over to meet them. Will leaned over to whisper in his ear, but Weiss pushed him away. "No one but Mike can do that, buddy," he said. 

"Ouch," Vaughn sobbed. "It hurts." And he pointed to his ankle, which had, indeed, swelled. He was so cute, sitting there, in only a sock and a nice pair of boxers, pointing to a swollen and half-covered ankle. The others just stood there, unmoving, absorbing the scene. It was – wait.

The three of them turned to look at each other. 

"Well…" Will started. He was not heard.

"Why are you looking at him like that?" Sark asked of Weiss. 

"Why are you?" Weiss retorted to Sark. 

"He's clearly mine."

"Was mine first." 

"Was not."

"Was too!" 

"Was not!" 

"Oh, shut up already! He's mine!" Will yelled, and grabbed the closest item he could grab a hold of – the IKEA catalogue, and chucked it at them. 

He missed again. Well, not entirely. 

Because at that moment, Sydney walked through the door. And the book made perfect contact with her face. Will whimpered, and ran to hide behind the pillar on the edge of the small kitchen. Sark and Weiss didn't move, frozen like deer in headlights, jaws slack. 

"Hi!" Vaughn smiled, moving his arm up to point at her. His brows furrowed. "you're not supposed to be here."

"Not. Suppose. To. Be. Here?" she asked, making sure to add extra emphasis to each and every word. Her gaze was dark, evil, fire. She turned to Sark first. "You! Are not supposed to be here!" 

Sark, too frightened to fight against her while in his state of undress and her state of wrath, quickly mumbled some words of apology and scuttled to gather his clothes. He jumped out the open window to the depths below, his footsteps heavy on the ground as he ran away like a scared little boy. 

She next directed her attention to the pillar, and Will, who kept peaking out from behind it like a complete idiot. 

"Will! I can't believe you! Get out of here!"

"I…um…need a ride?" he retorted, still chewing on the straw. 

"Fine! I won't be long," she growled, looking straight at Weiss. He gulped, inching backwards towards the hallway and preferably, a door with a lock. Of course, Sydney had to have her gun on her, which meant not even a lock could save him at this point. 

"Umm…I'll…" he muttered, grabbing his clothes. As he passed her, Sydney ripped the straw from his mouth and threw it to the ground before pushing him out the door. He waved as he disappeared into the hallway. 

"Eric Weiss," Sydney then said. Weiss looked around him, hoping there was someone else in the room, someone else named that, but found the only other person was Vaughn, who had started to play solitaire with the cards face down. All of them. 

"Hiya, Syd. Listen, I've got a really hectic day tomorrow, so I'm just, ya know, gonna – " and he edged towards the door, not even caring about his clothes at this point. She jumped into his path like a praying mantis. 

"You are a bad, bad man," she said, "and I – "

"Sydney," Vaughn spoke up before she had the chance to disembowel Weiss on the spot. 

"Yes, sweetie?" she asked, her voice nothing like it had been moments before. 

"Please don't kill my best friend," he pleaded with her. "I need him because he makes good pizza."

"Awe, but I told you what would happen if you were with him."

"I wasn't alone! I had…people."

"People what, hunny," Sydney asked. But Vaughn had already returned to his solitaire game. 

"He does that," Weiss spoke up. 

"If I ever, and I mean ever see you like…like this again and around my boyfriend, I will kill you. No, I will – "

"Pizza!" Vaughn cried like a happy school child. Sydney sighed and hung her head. There was no way she could really kill Weiss now, even though her boyfriend was incredibly drunk and would probably not remember how those red stains got into his carpet. But he would miss the pizza – something she knew he certainly enjoyed. And so, that was how pizza saved Eric Weiss' life so that he may live another day. 

Her eyes narrowed as she looked towards the floor. 

"Is that a fleck of evil? Where'd that come from?" 

Neither Sark, nor Will ever found out exactly what was in the bag. And they doubted they ever would.


	4. Interlude One Sydney

Sporks and Fries: Interlude I

Sydney

By Kira

kira@sd-1.com | 

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Really. Seriously!

The first step to solving a problem is realizing you have one. 

The second step is realizing that there are some problems that you can't fix on your own. 

There aren't many problems in this world I can't fix on my own. Sometimes, I think they only send me on missions with a partner because there's some archaic rule written somewhere that two agents must be sent on each mission. Right. That must have been written before I came around, because there's no way they would have said that if all their agents were awesome like me. 

I tilt my head to the side, in a typical cute girl fashion, and read through my crowded Lotus Notes box. Thank God it's working for me today – there's all these changes to it since it's for "government use". Geeze, those meanies, why do they have to make my life harder by giving me an altered version? I mean, don't people have enough problems with it already, let alone a government version?

Whatever. Email from Vaughn. Wait – 

I turn in my chair. Oh, he's not at his desk, he's standing near it. Why the hell does he clutter up my mailbox with email when he can just walk over here and talk to me? Oh, it's a fwd. A crappy one at that. I never thought him the type to give into those "Send this to 10 of your friends to get good luck!" things, but every day I get at least one forwarded to me. 

I seriously question his mental age. 

Sighing, I move to close the window, my mind somewhat sluggish in processing what he was doing while standing next to the desk. I swivel around in my chair. As expected, Weiss jumps clear across the room, mutters something about work (like he does any work), and runs out of the room. 

Vaughn stands straightening his tie. He gulps as he looks over at me, rubbing the back of his neck ever so nervously. I close my eyes, trying to pull up what I had seen before. 

Was that a hicky?! 

Am I seeing things? I swear, I'm not seeing things. I'm not – oh, but I wish I were!

I need to google this problem right now. As in this instant. Saving the world can wait – I need help. And google, well, google can find anything. And I need a support group. 

Wait, what exactly should I google? It's not like I can type in My Boyfriend is More than Good Friends with his Best Friend. Well, I can, but I'm sure IT monitors these things, and as soon as I hit search, the entire office is going to hear about yet another unsanctioned romance involving Vaughn. I doubt that would be a good mark on his record, and unless he were to search for a job involving pulling in the love of lots of people, wouldn't help him after the CIA fired him. 

But what else can I type in? I have to find a politically correct way to phrase this, and I can't pass it off as I have a friend who… thing. That would send up a red flag as well, and the talking would carry out as I surmised beforehand. 

I let my head fall and hit the keyboard. There was no way of searching the internet for answers from here – I'd have to look when I got home that night, making sure to keep an eye on Vaughn. 

I felt a hand rub my back and instantly flipped up and spun to grab the arm the hand belonged to, only to face Vaughn, who's face was twisted in a way that couldn't be comfortable. I let go.

"Wow. Are you alright?" he asked me, a few forehead winkles making their morning appearance. I paused, thinking of what I would say to cover for my nosedive into the keyboard. 

"Yeah, fine," I replied automatically. I could almost hear myself snort in my head. Am *I* okay? Yeah, sure, I'm fine. Why don't you just go hang out with naked men some more, or maybe you want to finish that little thing with Weiss you had going over there. I'm on to you, Mr. Vaughn – I'm a super secret spy – I can see these things. There's nothing you can hide from me, you – 

"No you're not." Did he just interrupt me?

I needed to come up with a save. 

"It's the jelly at home," I sighed. "Will likes grape, and stocked up the fridge with it. And everyone knows you can't have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without strawberry preserves." Buy it buy it buy it. 

"That's odd," he responded, rubbing his forehead. "I thought Will liked all things strawberry. At least, that's what he told Weiss." He looked off somewhere while I tried to keep my temper down. He was talking to *Weiss* about what Will *liked*?! What the hell was going on here? Ok, ok, I can handle this. The two of them were trying to make Will seem more comfortable in his new job here, so it wasn't completely unfathomable for Weiss and Vaughn to be talking about him. 

"Means I'll have to go return that, then." Did he just say that? Did he – 

"What did you say?" I demanded of him. His eyes widened and he stuttered. 

"No – nothing. Nothing at all," he laughed nervously. "Look, over there, it's – "

Oh, yes, you did stop talking, because now I'm standing in front of you, hands on my hips, glaring. 

"What do you have to return?" 

"Syd, you know I love you, right?"

"Yes."

"So, umm, trust me, mmmk?"

"Did you just go mmmk?"

"No. Gotta go, bye!" 

I have never seen Michael Vaughn run so fast. It was like he was a blur of gray, sweeping through the JTF like a fly escaping a spider. Which he was. 

But first, I needed some advice. 

. . 

Subject One: Irina Derevko

"I don't think Agent Vaughn is the problem," she drawled in that slight Russian accent. I swear, that's just as fake as Sark's British one. Maybe she's not really Russian, maybe she's something else, like Swedish. She certainly looks it. And I've never been told I look Russian at all. Of course, I may have inherited my looks from my dad, but I think he's a fake American. 

"You don't?" I asked, eyebrows raised. I slapped down another card – a red 6. Irina glared at me from across the makeshift table and consulted her UNO cards once again. I was so going to win. 

"No. He loves you, Sydney," she said simply, drawing a few cards. She finally threw down a yellow 6. Damn. All I have are red and blue cards. 

"I know, but lately, he's been – "

"It's that Agent Weiss," she grinned, watching me pick up more cards. How were these shuffled? I was never going to win at this rate!

"And Sark and Will." She stopped and looked up at me. 

"Sark?" she asked, her voice pain-stricken. Finally, a yellow card! I put it down, but just as I did, she threw all her cards at the deck, scattering them throughout the cell. I am so not cleaning them up. "Tell me what has happened."

I leaned closer to her, not wanting the guards watching them to hear. "He visited Vaughn at a deli, called him on the phone, and two days ago, I found him almost naked with Weiss, Will, and Vaughn, drunk."

"You didn't."

"I did. Mom, what's going on?"

"I was afraid this would happen," she sighed. What, what would happen? "It's the Vaughn genes."

"What?"

She got a nostalgic look on her face, and appeared to be far away. "It was the 70's. I had met William Vaughn on a mission to Egypt. He looked quite nice in those safari clothes – he even had the hat. The team he was with seemed like a normal CIA team, but I soon learned something was different.

"William didn't see it, but I did. He kept getting strange gifts left at the flap to his tent. And he always had a great breakfast waiting, albeit a little sandy, when he woke up."

"So?"

"It was the team. It happens, after awhile. The Vaughn genes are so strong, they pull in men as well as women. And they have no idea it's going on. You have to save him, Sydney. Save him from the fate his father suffered!" 

"What, death?"

"No! Something much, much worse. His father – "

"Hiya, Syd!" Ugg….of all the times to show his face, it had to be now. I turned back to my mom, but she was already cleaning up the cards, her back to Vaughn. Was she susceptible to these genes as well? These genes of extreme hotness? 

"Hey, Vaughn, what's up?" 

"Nothing." And he ran away again. What the hell was that. I turned to mom. 

"Excuse me for a moment," I said to her, and ran out of the cell. He wasn't anywhere around. Out in the main room, I found myself standing next to Marshall, transfixed and glued to my spot. 

Vaughn was standing across the room next to Will, who was *feeding* him some of his strawberry yogurt. Vaughn was being fed by Will, and no one seemed to notice. And what was that, a – 

"Is that a foon? I think that's a foon. You know, when I was small I used to try to balance spoons on my nose, but it never worked. So I tried with sporks, and that didn't work either, but foons did and – "

"Marshall, what do you see?" I asked him, turning to look at him. Marshall sighed and looked at Vaughn, then back at me. 

"Will's eating some yogurt and Vaughn's discussing something with him. I'm going to assume it's work-related because of the blue file folder he has in his hands that he keeps looking down at – "

I cut him off with a wave of my hand, relived. Then I turned back. 

Was it me, or did the lighting just get a little more – seductive? Vaughn was sitting on the edge of a desk, Will just in front of him, licking the foon with a look in his eyes I knew from the time he kissed me. Vaughn grinned and opened his mouth for some more yogurt. Will obliged, slowly feeding him more. 

I shook my head. What the hell was going on!? 

I looked back to Marshall, then ran out of the room, crying. 

Damn those genes!


	5. Strawberry Shampoo and Brown Bags

Sporks and Fries II: The Sporkening

By Kira

kira@sd-1.com | 

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Really. Seriously!

Chapter One: Strawberry Shampoo and Brown Bags

The television show Highlander had, at one time, been popular. Starting in the early 90's, this show, inspired by the movie series of the same name, brought a kind of fan service feel to the entire Highlander genre, and, with it's sexy male lead, brought in it's share of interested female viewers, looking for the softer side to the decapitating McCleod. The show survived for quite a few seasons, and still has a devoted fan base. 

Mr. Sark is one of these devoted fans. 

It was no surprise to anyone that, at 3 o'clock, he was seated in front of his large television set, tuned to TNT. A large bowl of kettle corn popcorn sat to his right, a large glass of Diet Coke to his left. He was a man in heaven, ready to watch the re-runs of his favorite show. There was just something about it that he couldn't get enough of, and in this insane world of death and mindless bloodshed, he found solace in this piece of old Americana. 

In fact, he was such a huge fan of this show that he would, on occasion, place himself into the show with the other characters. Raising his hands above his head (at the end of the opening), he would say "Mr. Sark, of the clan of Sark." But his face would fall immediately after that, as he had no first name and "Mr." just didn't fit in with what he was trying to say. He's already tired looking at things for a first name, but found that most of his documents and belongings held fake names, and that wasn't going to help him at all. He needed a first name. 

An so the show progressed, and no one bothered him as he sipped his Diet Coke and watched people get their heads cut off. But it was at the end, when Ducan was talking to someone else on the screen, that Sark's full attention was brought to the content of the show and not other things. 

"There can be only one," Duncan said, as if he were speaking directly to Sark. His ice blue eyes went wide, and he could have sworn a large spotlight was focused on him at that exact moment. And a choir of young boys starting singing in Latin behind him, for this was truly a magical moment. 

"Mr. Sark," the Duncan on the screen said, turning to face him. Sark looked around before pointing to himself and mouthing 'me?'. "Yes, Sark. There can be only one. It is up to you to make sure you are that one."

Then the screen launched into the ending credits and a wordless version of the opening theme. 

Sark launched himself from his seat, spilling the popcorn and Diet Coke all over his floor. 

"I will be the only one!" he cried to the air. A random guard shook his head and hung it, wondering if the pay was really worth all this frustration. The choir sang loud, the light blindingly bright. 

Grinning like a damned idiot, Sark stood this way until a commercial came onto the screen. He calmed, and noticed the spilled things. 

"It's going to be a bitch to get that out," he muttered, and went to find some cleaning supplies, but was soon sidetracked by this undying need for a long, shiny sword….

. . 

Will sat at the counter, eating some strawberry ice cream. 

"Why does this entire house smell like strawberries?" Sydney asked, entering the kitchen. Will shrugged and pushed the dish over the edge of the counter into the kitchen, hoping she wasn't heading in there. The last time he ate ice cream for breakfast, she'd kicked him over the couch and let him lie there unconscious for a few hours only to wake up with a fresh coat of dust covering his face. Apparently, she'd left him there for a full three days before she decided she needed the use of her coffee table and pushed him off it. 

She was getting meaner, lately, ever since she found him almost naked with her boyfriend. Of course, he felt it was completely worth it. 

He grinned and leaned on his hand. "What's wrong with strawberries?" 

"They're gross," Sydney wrinkled her nose and walked into the kitchen – and promptly slipped and fell right on her ass. Will turned at least four shades of red and scurried out of there before she realized that the large puddle of strawberry ice cream she'd slipped on was his. But in running from Sydney he ran, literally, into a towel-clad Michael Vaughn still wet from the shower. And like a five year old boy caught in the act, Will was stunned as he sat on the floor, thrown there by his own momentum. 

"H – hi," Will stuttered. Vaughn grinned down at him, running a hand through hanging, wet hair. 

"Morning, Will. Where's Sydney?" he asked. Will just – sat there. 

"WILL!" Sydney's voice roared from the direction of the kitchen, but he didn't hear her. All he was thinking about was that wonderful man standing before him, and how he would love nothing more than to run his hands over that wet chest, through the strawberry smelling hair. Wait – 

"Did you use my shampoo?"

"The strawberry one?"

"Yeah."

"Oops. Sorry, Will, I thought it was Syd's."

Will was grinning like a 12 year old. Vaughn had used his shampoo. His! Oh, there were only a few more steps and Vaughn would be all his – he would win! 

Sydney's steps could be heard stomping towards them, but were interrupted by a knock at the door. She paused, then turned and put on her hostess face before answering it. But as soon as she did, a scream came from her lips. Vaughn and Will rushed to the door, but Will soon lagged behind, carrying a towel with him as he did.

. . 

There are some things people laugh at when they watch them on TV, or see in real life, but when put in that situation themselves finally see the seriousness of it all. The devotion, the feeling and emotion. 

And so, Will Tippin, who had always thought it silly to keep items of band members thrown from stages, or never washing a hand again after that special person touched it, found himself in a quandary. You see, he was standing in the middle of the living room he now could call his own, hugging a white towel to his chest, his eyes large and shining. If animated, there would have been large yellow and white stars in them as he looked off towards the front door. 

He was never going to wash that towel ever again. 

Not only that, he was searching his star-struck mind for his digital camera's last location, praying he could figure it out and find it in the next thirty seconds as Vaughn ran towards the door, concerned for his girlfriend as well as putting on a *very* good show. It clicked in his head, and faster than Speedy Gonzalas, he was off, running for his room, the towel now pressed hard against his chest (and subsequencially making a large wet mark on his t-shirt). 

It was because Will was back in his room digging through his closet that he didn't see who was at the front door. 

Sydney did, and was on the floor, unconscious, from fainting at the sight of Mr. Sark standing on the front porch dressed in black – as always – and a long wide black trench coat, the handle for a sword sticking out from inside the black abyss. 

But, the image of Sark standing there with the sword didn't really bother her that much. It was what he was doing when she opened the door that caused her to scream and fall on the tiled floor. Sark had quickly sheathed the sword he was now carrying, but Weiss continued to huddle against the wall of the house, lying in the decorative bushes out there, his suit coat slashed into small, narrow strips that hung off him like ribbon. Like a frightened animal, his eyes were wide, hands pressed against the wall.

Well, that was, of course, until Vaughn came to the door. 

He thought he'd died and gone to heaven. A heaven with a just-out-of-the-shower naked Vaughn, his dirty blond hair still wet sitting messily atop his head, a piece falling into his clear green eyes. But that was only the beginning of his trip south this fine morning, a trip Sark was on as well. Yes, kids, this one traveled down the well-chiseled face, the long, beautiful neck, to his still damp chest just yearning for some hands to be run down it only to end at his – 

*flash*

Surprised, Vaughn turned. 

*flash*

"I got him!" Will cried as if he were a 13 year old catching her favorite band off-guard. He jumped up and down, giddy, the towel still clutched in his hand, the other hand holding his small silver digital camera. Weiss came out of his trance after taking in the back half of the love of his life, jumping up from his position in the bushes and sweeping past Sark to take a look in the camera's viewfinder. 

"Good morning, Mr. Vaughn. I see everything is hanging…correctly for you today," Sark smirked, checking his hair in the window next to the door. Vaughn blushed, looked down, and screamed a scream to rival Will's from Taipei before running back into the house. He attempted to take the first towel he saw – the one Will was still holding, but was unable to. 

"Mine!" Will said. Vaughn ran away. 

"So, how'd the picture come out?" Sark asked. 

"I call doubles!" Weiss cheered. 

Vaughn ran back to his room and quickly threw some clothes on. There was no way he was letting naked pictures of himself out in any way – he was not going to be the target of blackmail *or* a unwilling model in a magazine. Well, being a model would be fun, he giggled to himself, and then, he'd have more admirers. 

Wait. He had four. More were not needed. 

When he arrived back in the living room, he found Will standing on the couch, holding the camera above his head as Weiss stood on the ground next to it, jumping up and down in an attempt to grab it from him. Sark, however, was who worried him, as he stood off to the side, silent, playing with one of Sydney's ponytail holders as if he were contemplating its correct usage. 

Weiss finally decided enough was enough, and leapt up at Will, causing the pair to fall back, tumble over the table behind the couch, and end up sprawled at Vaughn's feet. Oh, but it didn't stop there. The pair continued to roll around on the ground shouting things at each other, such as:

"Give me the camera!" 

"You cannot handle the nakedness!"

"I was there!"

"In small doses."

"Get off me! I don't want you, and I want him!"

"No *I* want him!"

"Me, you half-wit reporter!"

"No, me, you overweight clown!"

"That's *it*!"

And they rolled on past Vaughn. He stood there, simply blinking, then shook his head. Silly men rolling around his floor. He *had* to be dreaming. 

"Mr. Vaughn?" Sark asked from across the room, his voice sounding somewhat timid. Vaughn looked up at the blond, who now had a ponytail hanging, well, sticking off to the side, more and more hair escaping the loose elastic band with each passing second. 

"Yes," Vaughn replied, biting his fist. "Sark?"

"Does this look manly?" he asked, pointing to his hair. Vaughn couldn't help it, and broke out laughing, having to clutch his stomach. 

Mr. Sark did *not* enjoy being laughed at, no matter who was doing the laughing. And as quickly as construction sweeps onto narrow roads in the city, his mood changed, and the sword was out. 

"Are you laughing at me?" he growled. 

The sight of Sark standing there with a large sword sobered him up almost immediately. 

"There can be only one!" he cried, holding the sword above his head and cutting off a large chunk of the ceiling fan. 

He leapt for the two men *still* rolling around and now arguing over who loved Vaughn more. Weiss caught sight of him first, and ducked out of the way, rolling off into a bedroom. 

It was the towel that got it. 

Will cried like his mother had been killed, cradling the poor now sliced towel in his hands. His blue eyes were filled with tears as he looked up to Sark. 

"Why?" he asked. "Why the towel? It never did anything to you!" 

"It was in my way," Sark shrugged. Will looked down to the towel. 

"Poor thing," he mumbled. "Poor, poor thing."

Weiss decided sitting in the bedroom with the door locked would be the best option at that time. 

. . 

"Ugg. How long have I been out?" Sydney asked, leaning up as she rubbed her head. Vaughn rushed over to her side, now fully dressed yet still as yummy. He gave her a hand and helped her up from the ground. The first thing she noticed was that the sun was no longer up. 

"All day!?" she asked, somehow forming a large, red haze around her. Vaughn cowered, wishing he wasn't too tall to fall and hide behind one of the barstools, and just stood his ground hoping for the best instead. She took three large steps to close the distance between them. 

"Well, umm, you looked comfortable?" he asked more than stated. 

"Comfortable? I was passed out in the front entrance!"

"I bought you a present!" Vaughn tried, smiling. Sydney's face lit up. 

"Where is it?" 

"What?" 

"My present!"

"Oh! It's here!" and he ran to the other side of the couch, giving the sleeping Will a sideways glance. That towel was still in his arms, cradled there like an injured child. Sark slept in the corner, corralled there by extension cords and a printed copy of The Picture Will had given him as a peace offering. He looked harmless. 

Weiss was still in the bedroom, now shifting through the drawers in an effort to find Vaughn's. It was with his hands holding some…clothing…, a guilty look on his face that he was found by Vaughn, who had rushed in there to retrieve the bag. 

"Eep!" Weiss exclaimed, and dove to hide behind the bed. Vaughn grabbed the bag and gave Weiss a sideways glance. 

The man smiled back, waved, and waited for him to shut the door so he could resume his previous activities. 

"Present!" Sydney grinned, rushing to meet him halfway. Vaughn pulled the first present out of the bag, which was in fact, a large brown box with holes poked in it. She looked through the holes and gasped, leaning back. 

"A bomb!"

"Bomb!"

"Bomb?" 

The boys were up, and Weiss, who had seen the bag's contents before, hid behind a half-opened bedroom door. Sark, being the brave one, walked up and took the lid off the box. 

He read: "This hamster is a pipe bomb."

"Umm…Vaughn?" Will asked. 

"Yeah?"

"Why did you put a little cardboard sign around the hamster's neck saying it's a pipe bomb?"

"So Donovan wouldn't eat him."

"Right."

"Bomb!" Weiss cried, and ran out of the house, the ribbon his coat had been reduced to flying in the wind. Vaughn gave him a look, knowing about the man's fear of exploding things and small animals, and reached into the bag to extract the other gift…


End file.
